For The First Time
by Razzaroo
Summary: "I never thought I would miss hot baths so much." Baths and brotherly bonding;Mark and Julian Blackthorn have missed each other this past five years.


**A/N. Razzaroo attempts to write brotherly fic 2k15. I had an itch and this scratched it. This was my first time ever trying to write Julian and was less nervewracking than I thought it would be. And I can attest, magnolia bubble bath is the scent of _heaven_.**

* * *

"I never thought I would miss hot baths so much."

Julian looks up from his canvas to see Mark lingering in the doorway, a towel draped over his bare shoulders. He's only half dressed in jeans that Julian is nearly certain are his, because of course Mark's outgrown all the clothes he'd left behind when he was spirited away by the Wild Hunt. He's still damp, the remnants of steam sticking to the pale shapes of scars across his chest and arms, and his pale blond hair curls over the tips of his ears.

Julian almost hates the way Emma looks at him, as if Mark is the first man she's ever seen.

"They don't have baths in Faerie?" Emma asks, tucking a lock of her own hair behind her ear. And she'd been doing so well at keeping still, "Or, well, Annwn or whatever it's called."

"Not hot ones," Mark replies, "And that's all I can say on the matter." He tugs at the end of the towel, "I might write to Gwyn actually, suggest he look into indoor plumbing."

"So it was you I heard splashing about in the bath earlier," Julian says coolly, rinsing his paintbrush off, "I thought it was Tavvy playing in there again."

Mark smiles and, for a moment, he looks almost like he used to, but the smile is still too feral and wild for Julian to reconcile it with the brother he remembers.

"Let me enjoy it, Jules," he says, "I've been bathing in rivers and lakes for too long. Although, I don't think even the warmest bath can do much good for my feet."

Julian glances down to see calloused toes and he knows that Mark's soles are as tough and leathery as an old belt. At the back of his mind, there's a vague memory of waking up level with Mark's bare feet on a the shore of a lake he doesn't know, hearing Mark speaking to someone whose voice he can't recognise, in a language he doesn't understand. Emma looks too, sitting up straight, and Julian suddenly knows that this portrait of her isn't going to be finished this evening. He smothers a sigh and starts to pack up his paints, setting his canvas down out of sight and mind so it can dry without Octavian's sticky fingers trying to find it. Mark looks at him oddly, his right eye gleaming as warm as honey.

"Try a pumice stone," Emma says, wigging her own toes, "They're great."

"Or industrial sandpaper," Julian says, "You haven't seen them, Emma, it's awful."

"The Wild Hunt doesn't really believe in shoes."

"Well, maybe you should tell Gwyn ap Nudd that they're very, very real." It comes out more biting than Julian intended and both Emma and Mark look at him, both looking slightly baffled. He pinches the bridge of his nose, "Sorry; it wasn't meant to come out like that."

"Are you OK, Jules?" Emma asks, and her forehead creases in worry, "You really haven't been yourself lately."

The unspoken "_Since Mark came back" _hangs in the air between them and if Mark picks up on it, he doesn't say. Julian reaches for his pack of cigarettes and his lighter.

"I'm fine," he says, standing up, "Just stressed. There's a leak in the roof that needs fixing and Octavian thinks it's the best game in the world to stand under it when it rains. And Ty managed to somehow sneak an iguana into his room; I don't even know where he _got _an iguana. And Uncle Arthur keeps missing meals." He rakes his hand through his hair, "I doubt Dad would be happy if his brother starved under his own roof so…"

"He won't starve, Jules," Mark says softly, "You shouldn't worry so much."

"That's easy for you to say, Mark," Julian says, and he has to fight to keep the snap out of his voice, "Once he went a week without once showing his face at meal times, and the food I left for him was untouched." He waves his hand dismissively, "Look, I've got this. I can handle it, it's fine."

He quickly leaves, because Mark has that damn concerned look on his face that makes Julian feel like he's about twelve years old again. Before he turns down the hallway, he hears Emma say, "I don't know what's got on his back; he hasn't told me anything…"

He escapes out of the front door of the Institute and sits down on the front steps in the dark purple evening. His lighter flares and the smell of burning cloves fills his nose, slowly working its magic on his frayed nerves. He sucks in a lungful of smoke and twists to look behind him; the light to the twins' room is on and Livia's shadow dances over the curtains. The light in the study is also on but there doesn't seem to be any life behind that curtain. Julian exhales a smoky breath and has to squash down his gnawing worry over his uncle.

When he's smoked his way through two cigarettes, the door opens behind him and he can hear the whisper of bare feet over the stone steps. It has to be Mark; everyone else wears shoes.

"Do you usually chain smoke?" Mark asks when he sits down. He's managed to find a shirt, a white button down that Julian recognises as one of their father's.

"No," Julian replies and he lowers his lighter, leaving the third cigarette hanging unlit in his mouth, "Only on special occasions."

They lapse into silence. Julian twirls his lighter between his fingers while Mark searches the sky for stars. Five years of lost conversations and lost bonds and lost _time _hangs between them, even while Julian tries to separate memories that might be real and might be dreams.

"Mark," he says eventually, "Did…when you were with the Hunt, did I _see _you? Properly, I mean."

"Yes," Mark says, drawing the word out, "But you really shouldn't be remembering that."

"Why not?"

"Because you were technically dead," Mark says and he looks down at his hands, "Can we not talk about that? It makes my skin crawl."

"That bad?"

"We're not supposed to talk about the Otherworld."

There's a hardness in Mark's voice and Julian lets the matter drop.

"When did you start smoking?" Mark asks, nodding towards the pack of cigarettes that Julian has stuffed into his pocket.

"A year ago," Julian takes the cigarette from his mouth, "It's just stress relief." His mouth quirks, "Like my painting."

"I've seen your paintings," Mark says, and there's a smile in his voice, one that doesn't match the one that shows on his face, "They're good."

"Thanks," Julian says and he feels like he could have a more comfortable and natural conversation with a stranger on the street than with his own brother.

He remembers, when he was younger, he used to absolutely adore Mark. He'd followed his brother everywhere, wanting to be just like him; that had died off when he'd hit about eight or nine. Even after that, he remembers always going to Mark when he was struggling with some technique, because it was always easier to approach his older brother rather than his sister and his parents usually had their hands full.

He remembers knowing his brother, and knowing how to talk to him.

"I know someone," Mark says, "Who can paint magic into their art and make it move. I'll see if I can get them to show you some time."

"I don't think I could do faery magic," Julian says, fixing his gaze on the stone steps in front of him.

"I dunno. Gilfaethwy can turn into a cat, and he was human." Mark fixes Julian with that sly, feral grin, "I could show you if you like."

"You can turn into a cat?" Julian says, doubting.

Mark shakes his head, "Sadly, no. It would make life easier, don't you think?"

"Cats have no responsibilities," Julian says, "Nice as it sounds, I can't just give mine up to be a cat."

Mark's smile slides off of his face, "No, I guess you can't." He rests his chin on his hands and regards Julian with serious eyes, "You don't need to have it all on your shoulders anymore. I'm here now."

'_But I needed you __**before **__now,'_ Julian thinks but he bites his tongue. Instead, he rolls his shoulders and changes the subject, "Do you miss anything from the Hunt?"

Mark blinks, "I…hard question to answer." He hums in the back of his throat, "I suppose I miss my hounds. And Cernunnos, along with some other things. But I missed here too; I can't have everything."

The answer isn't what Julian expected. He'd expected Mark to miss everything or nothing at all, not the half-longing that Mark seems to harbour. He frowns and wishes that at least _one_ thing could be as straightforward as he was expecting.

"Look," Mark says, "This really isn't the best place for us to talk. How about we grab some cheap wine, take it upstairs and stay up all night, just to talk. You can bring Emma too."

"You know I'm still underage, right?" Julian says and almost immediately feels stupid for it. What does Mark care for drinking laws? He can barely even grasp the appeal of monogamy these days.

"Course I do. Doesn't matter to me." Mark loops an arm around Julian's shoulder and pulls him close, "We haven't talked properly since I got back and nothing loosens the tongue better than wine. For all my talk of hot baths, I've missed my little brother more."

Julian presses his cheek against Mark's shoulder; his brother smells of magnolia bubble bath and a deep, earthy scent that can only be described as _faery. _He breathes in and the smell fills his lungs and the back of his throat like treacle.

"I'm not little," he says, even though he's muffled, even as a smile pulls at his mouth.

"My big little brother then."

Mark pulls away and retreats back inside, probably to raid the pantry for any alcohol he can find. Julian stays on the steps, rolling his third cigarette between his fingers, and he can't help smiling. He can't help the grin.

He can't help but like the idea of properly meeting Mark again for the first time.


End file.
